Broken Badges: Cases from Police Internal Affairs Files

by Lou Reiter

  Taylor knew making the trip in his old Jeep would have been a back breaker, and was pleased when a last minute reprieve came his way. Sandy Banks dropped the keys to her new Porsche in Taylor’s hands over coffee at Tia’s a few days earlier.

  Taylor had lived in Santa Fe for several months when he first met Sandy. He was idling his time away on the roof bar at the Coyote Café just after the sun had set. August had been a blisteringly hot month, but the evenings cooled down once the sun settled behind the mountaintops.

  He was perched on a stool against the outside stucco wall overlooking the few remaining tourists scattering in the public parking lot waiting for rides back to Albuquerque. He was trying out a tall frosty glass of a new microbrew green chile beer accompanied by a selection of Jacob’s gamey venison appetizers. Jacob was the current head chef at the popular restaurant. Taylor liked the sample of venison chili and the cilantro-spiced medallions the waitress set before him, but the sausage links were dry and really needed a higher fat content to be called great.

  “This seat taken?” A husky voice broke Taylor’s intense contemplation of his heat-infused brew.

  The voice belonged to a woman almost as tall as Taylor was. He couldn’t tell if she carried his same weight, or if her body was just proportioned differently. She was wearing beige silk slacks topped with a hip-length scarlet suede jacket. Her ivory silk blouse was accented by a modernistic squash necklace featuring a vibrant array of sugilite. Taylor thought the necklace might be a Tracy original. If so, it was expensive, very expensive. Taylor had always had a special attraction to sugilite pale purple stones, and focused on this finely crafted specimen, noting where it snuggled on her breasts.

  The woman’s hat had to be a one of a kind and definitely merited a second glance. The black woven hat had a large brim which was bent and curved, dipping low in back. A spread of silk flowers gathering on one side would have fooled all but a very discriminating florist. The flowers were a blazing garden of vibrant reds and deep purples.

  “Sandy. Sandy Banks. You’re Taylor Sterling, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged, Ms. Who?”

  “Sandy. If we’re going to be an item with the PIPs, otherwise known as Previously Important People, in Santa Fe, we should forget shitty titles.”

  With that pronouncement, Sandy held out her hand. She had a firm grip, and Taylor assumed she meant her clutch to be an introduction, not a come-on.

  “Tell me, Sandy, to whom do I owe this interesting introduction?” Taylor asked as he watched her pull a bar stool to his table, take a short hop up, and plant her broad ass on the seat.

  “Quite a few attorneys at the courthouse have been dropping your name around. Say you’re the real thing when it comes to analyzing cop work. Not that I’m into that type practice.”

  “So you’re an attorney?”

  “Guilty as charged. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Taylor smiled. “Don’t need one, do I? You know something I don’t?”

  Sandy leaned into Taylor like a co-conspirator would, grabbing a piece of dark sausage and popping it into her mouth. It was the first time Taylor could take a moment to study this unusual woman, without being distracted by her unique style and brassy proclamations. The New Mexico sun had taken its toll on her skin and deep ridges of saddle brown etched her face. Her hands had witnessed their share of hard work. No rings to make a statement, but these days that didn’t mean much. Taylor was pretty certain underneath Sandy’s sartorial façade the woman was rather muscular as he noticed her thighs spread her pant legs tightly. She wore very little makeup, with the exception of the pale glow of lip-gloss. Her cologne carried a subtle hint of citrus.

  The unlikely couple enjoyed dinner together at a granite counter overlooking the grill station of the restaurant. Taylor savored salmon smothered with citrus chutney while Sandy demolished a 16-ounce bone-in rib eye, bloody rare, just as she ordered.

  “Two of my favorite diners,” Jacob gushed as he walked to the counter. “Don’t recall you guys dining here together though.” A smirk played over his face. “Just met, huh? If I had to guess, Sandy was doing the stalking.”

  Taylor suddenly turned to his dinner partner. “You pick up lots of guys here, counselor?”

  “Just when I’m looking to get laid,” she said without glancing at Taylor.

  This was the beginning of a friendship of convenience with benefits. Neither Taylor nor Sandy wanted commitment. Both simply liked being together without having to put their guard up or worry about saying the wrong thing. Over the next few weeks Taylor and Sandy enjoyed going to festivals, wine tastings, art openings, and trying new restaurants. They both enjoyed the occasional sex. Neither had to worry about kids and felt safe in this world of STD attacks.

  As it turned out, Sandy Banks was well-known in northern New Mexico. Her specialty was real estate law, particularly land use and commercial development. Money wasn’t a problem for her. She lived in a rambling pueblo-style home perched atop a rock overlooking the Canyon Road winding art trail.

  Sandy had been married twice. Both husbands had been attorneys. The first was a sole practitioner who had hired Sandy right out of law school. She graduated from Southwestern Law School in Los Angeles and with diploma in hand, fled the California city for New Mexico the day after graduation.

  Her first husband quickly divorced when his wife caught him at a motel on Carillos Road wrapped in the sheets with his new hire, Sandy. A few years later, Sandy divorced him when she found their paralegal wrapped in similar sheets, but in a different motel.

  Sandy’s second husband had a criminal defense practice. She found he was doing more than representing scumbags when the DEA raided their home on a federal search warrant. Apparently he was being paid in cocaine, rather than long green. That little episode got Sandy disbarred. It took seven years for her to get her license back. That had happened over ten years before. After the two debacles, Sandy decided she didn’t need a husband, and settled for a succession of male friends with benefits.

  Sandy enjoyed her free and easy friendship with Taylor. He treated her with respect and she liked the lack of commitment. They enjoyed experiencing new ideas, sights, and tastes, always with a hedonistic bent. Taylor satisfied her need for intimacy, or maybe it was just plain sexual adventure and companionship. Sandy enjoyed listening to Taylor’s stories of police consulting. It helped her realize Santa Fe’s political bullshit, specifically involving real estate development, wasn’t as bad some places Taylor ventured to play the white knight.

  One morning the couple was having breakfast at Tia’s, commandeering their favorite back booth. Taylor was lamenting about his upcoming trip to Grand Junction.

  “Here, take my Porsche for the ride. I guarantee it’ll be better than humping the road in your Jeep.”

  “You just got that car!”

  “So I’m a selfish bitch. You won’t be any good to me after that Jeep beats the crap out of you, Taylor.”

  “I’ll just rent a car, or let me take your Chevy pickup.”

  “You’re hitting the mountains, Taylor. The Porsche needs the workout. Take it,” she ordered, dropping the keys into his hand.

  *****

  All Taylor could see were flickering blue strobes suddenly punched by the intense penetrating insult of the police car’s takedown spotlights. He kept both hands on the steering wheel, palms flat, fingers extended and spread to show he had nothing to hide. Spooking a young cop on this deserted stretch of roadway could only lead to making bad, big bad. Taylor sensed the cop was standing alongside the Porsche, just behind the driver’s door. He heard the metal flashlight tap insistently on the window. Taylor activated the window slide and it reeled down silently. Brisk evening air rushed into the car.

  “Registration, license, and proof of insurance, sir!” The cop’s voice was stern, but not overly amplified. Taylor couldn’t see much with the Streamlite’s beam pinpointing his pupils.

  “Okay to reach into the glove box? H
ow about reaching in my pocket to get my wallet, officer?”

  “That’s fine, just do it slowly, very slowly.”

  Taylor retrieved the appropriate credentials and handed them through the open window. “Just what did I do, officer?”

  “Car like this always seems to go faster than you think, huh?”

  “Forty. I saw the speed sign. I was going forty.”

  “Well, Taylor or Sterling. What, you got two first names, buddy? Who’s this guy Sandy on the registration?”

  “Friend.”

  “Some friend lettin’ you take this hot rod out. Is he your main squeeze?”

  Taylor let the comment slide. He got out of the Porsche when ordered and turned around, placing his palms on the roof of the car.

  “Done this before, huh, mister?”

  Taylor was able to catch a glimpse of the cop. He was quite a bit shorter than Taylor was and a good fifty pounds more weight was packed around his middle. He wore brown jeans and a dark brown uniform shirt. A beige Stetson covered his thinning hair. The cop’s pat down search was not much more than a rub down. He forgot to grasp the bulges in Taylor’s pockets and forgot about his pant legs.

  “Mind if I search your ride, Sterling Taylor?”

  “Why?”

  “Cause I’m asking. You got something to hide? You got some guns in there? Narcs? Something to be scared about, buddy?”

  “You got no cause, officer, so no, I don’t want you to search my car,” Taylor answered softly. He didn’t want to spook the cop who was now standing directly in front of him.

  “Now I’m goin’ to handcuff you, buddy. For your safety, you know. You been cuffed before, haven’t you?”

  Taylor turned around and put his hands behind his back.

  “You got no call for this, officer.”

  The cuffs were cinched and Taylor heard the ratchet close. He was guided back to the police car, a spankin’ new Dodge. Its body was shiny black with ebony tinted windows creating stamps all around. Grey reflective lettering marked the side panels. A large push bar commanded the front end of the car. The back seat was formed of molded plastic and not made for someone of Taylor’s size.

  Taylor watched the cop move to the Porsche, open the door, and lean inside. He watched him arch his head to one side as he keyed his mike.

  “Unit Seven. I’m out here on 50 just inside the city limits. Got a bright shiny Porsche I think we just confiscated. Found some shit inside. Can you get the Mountain Drug Task Force to roll?”

  The cop came back to the police car, opened the driver’s door, and began waving a quart-size plastic storage baggie in front of the caged back seat. “Got some white powder in here, buddy. I figure it’s coke. You dealing, or just using?”

  Taylor stared at him. He considered saying something, but realized he was probably being recorded on the small microphone clipped between the buttons fastening the cop’s uniform shirt. A black Chevy Suburban pulled up behind the Dodge. A husky male sporting a greasy ponytail got out of the driver’s seat. He was wearing a sleeveless leather vest with Outlaw motorcycle gang emblems parading over the back.

  As meth and crack epidemics spread from major cities to less significant towns in the 1980s, smaller and rural police agencies banded to fight the drug war together. Task forces were formed by combining cop shops from several locales. Often the Drug Enforcement Agency, known as the DEA, and state level enforcement agencies worked in conjunction. Some units were simply ragtag bands of cop cowboys without much direction.

  Other task forces operated under legal Memos of Understanding, or other forms of contract. Few were, or still are, audited. Most of the time the success of a task force was determined by the seizures it made. The more money, drugs, cars, boats, or houses seized, the more no one asked how the operation was run. Too often legal corners were cut to get drugs off the streets; that was often considered “ultimate justice” or “Noble Cause.”

  “Task Force,” ponytail exclaimed to the cop still standing by his car. “We got this yellow beauty. Thanks.”

  “All yours, my narc friend. ‘Member, we get our share!” the cop flipped a casual warning back at ponytail.

  “Fuckin’ prima donnas,” the cop whispered to Taylor. “Got to use them though. They got the flash money and sophisticated surveillance equipment. It’s like pimping ourselves out for their goodies.”

  The Juanita Springs Police station was parked in the middle of a complex housing City Hall, Municipal Court, and the Volunteer Fire Department. Taylor’s arresting cop fumbled with the keys on his equipment belt, finally inserting the correct one into the lock, opening the door to a large room with four desks scattered in a haphazard fashion. He pointed to a bench along one of the walls and told Taylor to plant his ass down. He fastened the chain of Taylor’s cuffs to the shackles in the eyebolt on the bench.

  Beams from an approaching car flashed through the station windows before being extinguished as the vehicle pulled to a stop. The door opened and a small man entered the room. He was balding and thick-framed glasses defined his lined face. Scuffed cowboy boots stuck out from well-worn black Levis. The guy was wearing a black police uniform shirt with a small badge covering a pocket. A small Glock was stuffed in an inside clip holster.

  “Beaver, what fuck you get into this time?”

  “Chief, this one’s a good collar, a really good collar!”

  Beaver was actually Officer Stuart Beyer. His nickname had stuck since junior high school. He had two enormous front teeth and owned a vicious cheek twitch that caused him to wiggle his nose frequently.

  “What’s this collar shit, Beaver? You watching reruns of Law and Order again? That’s NYPD speak. You be from Grand Junction, ain’t you?”

  “Boss, this dirt bag was high rolling right through town in his cherry Porsche. Had a full baggie of coke, but he let most of it fly out the window when I got behind him. Must have made me before I turned on the equipment. Just got a little residue left in the bag, but enough to hang him. The task force took control of his car and are going to turn it over to the feds.”

  “And who might you be?” the newly arrived man asked, directing his question to Taylor.

  “Got my ID in my wallet, chief,” Taylor replied.

  “Boss, I got his driver’s license over here,” Beaver the Cop said proudly.

  “What else you got in your wallet, mister?”

  “My retired LAPD identification.”

  The chief approached Taylor who rolled to one side exposing his rear pocket. The chief pulled out the wallet and opened it.

  “Deputy Chief, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “You dealing coke?”

  “Nope, never have. Just coming back from Grand Junction. I was meeting with an insurance attorney on a police civil case he’s handling. Been doing that kind of work since I retired. Live in Santa Fe now.”

  “What about the baggie Beaver has there?” the chief asked, pointing to his cop who was now squirming low into a desk chair.

  “Not mine, chief. Don’t know if it belongs to Officer Beaver either. If I was dumping it, why wouldn’t I let the baggie fly, too? Won’t find my prints or DNA on that baggie, chief,” Taylor said matter of fact.

  “Beaver, let’s go into my office for a little chat.” The chief turned and walked through a door in one corner of the small office. The door shut quickly after the two entered.

  Taylor couldn’t hear anything other than muffled voices. Through a small window he could see the chief pointing his finger at the hapless Beaver. In a flash the door whipped open and Beaver the Cop barreled out, heading for the front door of the station. He didn’t bother to glance at Taylor or say so long. Beaver’s cop car lights briefly added extra glare to the squad room before zooming to one side, then disappearing. About thirty minutes later the chief emerged from his office.

  “Got to deal with them young’uns these days. Slim pickins’ for any certified cop shop. Young cops don’t have much common sense and are even w
orse when dealin’ with people. Figure their asses warm police car seats though.”

  The chief approached Taylor who again rolled his hip to one side. The cuffs were released from Taylor’s wrists and he straightened up on the bench. He could hear his joints cracking at the effort. His penalty for three days without a visit to the gym. The chief began walking back to his office and waved for Taylor to follow. He slumped into his well-worn leather swivel chair and pointed at the couch saddled with sunken cushions. The chief noticed a small bulge near Taylor’s ankle.

  “You armed down there?”

  “Yep, Glock 26.”

  “Shit! Beaver searched you, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Shit! That young’un goin’ get hisself killed. Goin’ have to talk with him about missing that.”

  “What about the alleged baggie of coke, boss?”

  The chief allowed a small smile to cover his face.

  “How ‘bout I buy you some breakfast, Taylor Sterling?”

  Juanita Springs boasted a Waffle House on the main highway. Any Waffle House is often the junction of society in small towns. Social strata becomes irrelevant once inside the yellow restaurant where the diner cook is a master juggler. Orders are yelled in Waffle House lingo. Waitresses are either young women with no place to go or older ladies who have seen everything once too often.

  “Chief, out late aren’t you?” an older woman sporting a lopsided hairnet exclaimed as she pointed to a corner booth.

  “Gladys, you haven’t seen anything of that scumbag who beat you up last month, have you?”

  “Nope. I appreciate the talk you had with him. I really think he left town. He figures you’re looking for something to use to throw his ass in jail.”

  “I would if I seen him. You don’t need his kind, Gladys. You still got looks and you’re sharp as any single woman in these parts.”

  The chief slid into the well-used naugahyde booth, turned to Taylor and stuck out his hand. “Chief Clyde, Taylor. Sorry for my asshole officer.”